


Feels Like The End

by lookingforatardis



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling, Depression, M/M, Nostalgia, inspired by a real quote but not at all canon compliant to IRL timelines, post filming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-26 21:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: After filming cmbyn, Timmy spirals into a deep depression upon realizing his life will never be the same, and Armie will never be his. Devastated at the turn of events and more than a little concerned for his mental health, Armie books a flight to New York to help Timmy get better in whatever small way he can. **please read notes!!!**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [overflow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/overflow/gifts).



> After filming cmbyn, Timmy expressed that he needed time to adjust to life in New York, even going so far as to say he had to figure out how to handle his pre-filming life with his post-filming life. This was the inspiration, along with a quote he had years ago that (to anyone who's ever had depression) sounds like he's admitting to having struggled with it in the past during middle school and likely throughout highschool. It's common for things to trigger that sort of response again. A dear friend begged someone to write angst for her one night and my mind kept running back to those weeks after filming when he admits he struggled. 
> 
> This is pure fiction, even if it's inspired by Timmy's quotes. I don't think he struggled this much, and I know he at least wouldn't have for this long (because he was filming other projects during the timeline of this fic) but still... 
> 
> Title is from a song by the same name by Mikky Echo. There ARE slight mentions of suicidal thoughts (though brief and not descriptive at all) in this but there is NO actual acting on it. Timmy does NOT physically self harm at any point in this story. Let me know if yall need any sort of trigger warnings for anything, I'm happy to add them when necessary!

His eyes are empty, foreign.

That's all Armie can think when he opens the door with the hide-a-way key from under the mat, a hint given to him by Timmy's roommate when he'd called to warn him about Timmy’s frame of mind.  _ “He’s not giving you the full story, man.” _ There's a blanket haphazardly tossed over Timmy's legs.  He blinks slowly, glancing towards the door with a sigh. His shirt it too big and his hair is messy. He doesn’t even move when he stares at Armie from across the room despite this being the first time they’ve seen each other since filming wrapped. 

He looks empty, the act of letting himself go a disgrace, a cruelty in Armie's mind. 

Armie’s voice is trapped in his throat as he drops his bag on the floor and carefully shuts the door, walking towards the couch delicately as if he'll scare Timmy off. "Hey," he whispers, sitting down near his waist and resting his hand on Timmy's shoulder. " _ Hey _ ," he says again, emotion catching him off guard to see him like this as he tangles his hand in Timmy's hair gently. Timmy says nothing, but he moves to adjust his body so he can sit up and lean into Armie's side, their bodies awkward at first as they attempt to navigate the best way to hold onto each other in the small space. Timmy doesn't grip him, merely loops his arms around him and rests his weight against him while leaving the heavy lifting to Armie.  Anything more would be too much effort, his body already aching from the action; moving his limbs might as well be swimming through sand for him for all the mental energy it takes. Armie sees all this in the scrunch of his face, the slump in his shoulders, the hesitation before collapsing against Armie’s body. 

A door opens nearby and Armie glances up to see his roommate leaving, backpack slung over one shoulder as he adjusts his headphones and locks the door behind him. "You smell like airplanes," Timmy mumbles against Armie's shoulder, his voice muffled and tender, not at all what Armie expected considering his defeated facade. Armie nods and smiles as much as he can, his hands running over Timmy's back to ground him, protect him even. 

"I came straight here," he tells him, pulling him closer. "Deal with it," he teases, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I'm not gonna kill myself, you coulda showered first," Timmy says, snuggling closer into Armie as his heart seizes in his chest.

"If we could actually not make jokes about you that would be preferable," he says, his voice tense, fingers pausing at Timmy's spine.

"Sorry." Armie holds him tighter and fights the anxiety in his chest that this is a dream and he'll wake up thousands of miles away again. "I didn't actually try, you know," he says, as if it helped.

"I know," Armie nods. "Still. I don’t need the image." They stay seated in each-other's arms until Timmy's tears begin soaking into Armie's shirt and they can't hide from it anymore.

 

It wasn't a single thing; it never was. When Timmy was younger, it was everything at once that set him off, that made it difficult to breathe quite right or cope with the world around him. Theater was his refuge from the storm inside his heart, the only place it seemed okay to let it all go and free the emotion inside. He knew it would get better, was told enough times it would, and held onto hope through the darkest days that light would shine through one day soon. He healed, recovered, left it behind. He'd hoped it would never return, the darkness.

A part of him knew the moment they said goodbye in Italy that he'd end up here. As he held onto Armie in the lobby of their hotel, trying not to cry, wishing desperately he didn't have to be the one to leave first, he knew he'd end up back here in this place. Every mile away from him on the plane was final, the emptiness growing in his chest like he was being poured out over the Atlantic. He'd give himself a week, he told himself. For one week, he'd allow himself to feel it all, to hurt, to miss him. One week was good, it was time to readjust to America and his apartment.

One week became two and before he knew it, he was struggling to open his eyes in the morning, exhaust seeping into everything he did regardless of how many hours he slept. There would be days he’d stare at the wall and replay memories, listen to his roommate laughing in the next room and feel complete apathy, stare at his hands and barely recognize them. He would walk the streets he grew up on and feel each step wear on him like paperweights until it became so much that he couldn’t continue without sitting on a curb to catch his breath.  He was barely able to make it to any meetings or even his parents place without feeling like he was tearing himself apart just to breathe for the sake of others. No amount of Armie’s phone calls made it better; no amount of  _ I miss you too _ 's could stop the ache in his chest from swallowing him whole. Nothing Luca said could piece him back together, nothing his parents did could help him adjust. He was different, his world was different. He was a foreigner in his own bed, in his own eyes that seemed too old for him now, his body too young, his world too small, his city too loud and too quiet and too wrong.

Armie knew— he'd confessed late at night when nothing seemed to make the thoughts stop from pulling him under. The hours would tick by with Timmy barely saying a word, feeding off Armie’s stories about the day, until finally he’d collapse in on himself. It was always a variation of the same— he missed Armie. He couldn’t stop thinking about their favorite gelato spot or did Armie remember the day they fell asleep in the sun and Luca woke them up to avoid sunburn? It would shift from playful reminiscing to devastation, Timmy closed up and sheltered in his own bed, often in a hoodie stolen from Armie, as he stopped running from the truth he’d come to know. _I don’t feel like myself anymore_ , he’d say. Or perhaps, _I’m drifting, Armie._ Usually, _I feel like it's never going to be okay again_ , his voice broken and small. Sometimes he would linger on the words, wait for Armie to attempt to make it better. Sometimes he’d hang up without much warning, curling in on himself until he'd fall asleep.

He hadn't cried in about a week, which was what actually worried him (not that he’d tell Armie). He texted Armie a few nights ago, a simple,  _ it's getting worse, _ after ignoring his calls for three days. It wasn't his intention to make him come, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relieved to see the confirmation number pop up on his notifications, a promise of warm arms that would understand.

 

Armie arrived two days later, the conversation still fresh in his mind as he holds Timmy, the words Timmy had let spill over every night permeating his mind now that he had physical proof he was alright. 

_ “I just don’t know how to reconcile one me with the other.”  _

_ “I can’t stop thinking about what would happen if I just disappeared.”  _

_ “The city isn’t right anymore and everything’s wrong and it’s not fucking fair.” _

_ “The guy at the library reminded me of you and I cried in the bathroom for an hour before I could move.” _

_ “Luca would have told me to skip class right? He would tell me to watch a movie instead right? I missed a meeting with my agent, I’m fucked.”  _

 

Armie knew, logically he knew, that Timmy would never actually hurt himself. But it wasn’t the talking that scared him— it was the silence. He knew that talking meant Timmy was at least trying to process, trying to reach out for a lifeline. It meant he understood his pain and that retreating in on himself was the opposite of a solution. The days he went without responding to Armie’s texts, now  _ that  _ scared Armie. Made him get on a flight as fast as he could when Timmy finally admitted he needed help. 

Not that it had been a terribly easy transition for Armie to return to reality either, but he’d at least had practice with internalizing change. With hiding (and avoiding) emotion. 

So when Timmy sobs against his shoulder without so much as a proper “hello,” Armie is at a loss for how to help him. He opts to hold him close, keep his head steady against his shoulder, run his fingers through his hair the way he knows Timmy likes. 

“Can we take a nap?” Timmy asks quietly, wiping tears, his head lulling back to look up at Armie. “Like we did in Crema?” Armie tries not to let his face give away how terribly broken this request makes him and nods, asks where the bedroom is as softly as he can. When Timmy stands to walk, it’s almost in slow motion, his movements a bit frayed and tired. Armie hesitates only a moment before helping him with an arm around his back to carry some weight. When they reach Timmy’s room, he watches as Timmy collapses onto the unmade bed and tries to get under the covers, his eyes already slipping shut. He follows, pulls Timmy closer to him, wraps the blanket around them both. He tells himself he’s protecting Timmy from the cold, but really he’s keeping him contained, trying to hold him as tightly as he’s allowed to suppress the sadness. 

“I missed this,” Timmy mumbles, his voice catching. Armie can feel his breath sputter out of him in fragments as he presses his chest closer to Timmy’s back. Timmy’s hand lifts to cover Armie’s where it’s slung over Timmy’s waist and pulls so Armie is even closer, so his hand rests at Timmy’s heart. 

Armie doesn’t know how to tell him he’s scaring him without risking Timmy shutting down, so he stays silent while they rest. Simply kisses the top of his head, holds him close, pretends not to analyze so much why Timmy’s crying. Eventually, he feels Timmy go slack and knows he’s asleep, his fingers lighter against Armie’s. Armie texts Luca to tell him he made it to Timmy’s apartment and checks in with Elizabeth before returning his attention to Timmy, phone discarded on the edge of the bed. He rubs his arm and breathes him in, trying desperately to remember that he can’t let Timmy run from this. That he came here for a reason. 

From what he could tell, Timmy’s depression crept up slowly until he was in too deep to really dig himself out of it, especially not alone. Armie thinks it probably began in Crema towards the end of filming; he noticed little things, Timmy growing clingy, quiet, needing space but hating it whenever it was granted. It escalated the last day they were there, Timmy crying against his neck when they said goodbye, his quiet  _ I don’t want you to go _ shattering something deep within Armie. Now, he can see it didn’t stop. The pain continued its steady build in Timmy, and while he knew it had to an extent (the phone calls gave that much away) he didn’t realize how sluggish he’d be or how important touch may be. He brushes his hair back gently and sighs, knowing it’s only a matter of time before Timmy must wake up and attempt some form of normalcy. He’ll never get better if he doesn’t try, Armie thinks. If only he can get him to try. 

“Timmy,” he whispers after awhile, running a hand over his hair, down his arm and side, back up. “Timmy, come on.” His voice is low, his lips at Timmy’s shoulder, his own emotion barely at bay. Timmy scrunches up against him and shakes his head, groans slightly. “Hey, it’s just me. You okay?” Armie asks, rubbing his back when Timmy shifts to lay on his stomach. 

“Don’t go,” Timmy mumbles, scooting back so his side rests against Armie’s, though he remains on his stomach. “No more leaving.” 

“No, no more leaving. I’m right here, okay?” Armie nods, biting his lip to stop himself from showing too much. He’d never seen Timmy like this, as if he’d caved in on his own emotions. He’d never seen him clingy like this, exhausted mid-day like this. Armie lays back down near him and slings his arm over Timmy’s back to reassure him he’s still there. “I’m staying right here.” His hand trails over Timmy’s back, a gesture meant to reassure.  

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Timmy says, turning his head to look at Armie; he must sense Armie’s motives for being here. Hell, they were his own motives technically— he was the one who admitted to having a problem with his depression, to needing help. The tenor of his voice reminds Armie of earlier in the week when he got a call from Pauline. She’d been unsure, a bit hesitant to reach out, but found his number on Timmy’s phone and couldn’t stop herself. Told him she was worried and asked if something happened during the end of filming, if he could have any idea why Timmy had missed classes and wouldn’t get out of bed. She was worried. Armie couldn’t get Timmy on the phone and he began panicking, thinking the worst. It took Pauline calling his roommate to physically check on him to soothe Armie’s mind, to reassure him Timmy wasn’t hurt. That he was just ignoring the calls. When he’d gotten the text from Timmy, he’d practically already bought the ticket to see him, already determined that enough was enough and watching him go through this from afar was too painful. Now, sitting with him, he isn’t sure this is any less painful; it’s just a different pain, no longer an anxiety induced dull pain of the unknown, but rather a sharp ache in his chest. He understands now more than ever as he watches the emotions play out on Timmy’s face that his pain is linked to Armie, that by coming to see him he is simultaneously relieving the pain and generating more. He isn’t sure there’s a way to stop it, but he can at least show Timmy he understands.

“It’s okay,” Armie says, taking a deep breath. He rubs between Timmy’s shoulder blades and smiles softly at him. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me now.” Timmy begins crying again, pulls himself closer to Armie. “I miss it, too. It’s okay.” He shifts and allows Timmy to curl against his chest, his arms holding him closer. They’d always been affectionate on set, but the times they’d laid down together still weren’t that frequent. Still, it feels natural to hold him, Armie thinks. Like it did in Italy, like an extension of himself as well as his character, seeking some form of intimacy to Timmy. To Elio. To that bond. 

He rubs Timmy’s back until their breathing syncs up, loses track of how long they lay in silence together. Words seem inadequate now that Armie is actually with him; before, he’d rehearsed a million things to say, but now faced with the reality of Timmy’s depression, he just wanted to hold him, show him he cared, that he wouldn’t let anything separate them forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Light no longer streams through the window when Timmy tucks his head under Armie’s chin and pulls his arms to his chest, effectively making himself small against Armie with a sigh. Armie wraps his arms around him tighter and kisses the top of his head, lingering perhaps too long, or not long enough. “Timmy, you have to eat something,” he mumbles, nudging his curls with his nose. Timmy nods and sniffles, but doesn’t move. “Do you have food? I can cook. Or we can order something.”

“Pauline brought me groceries,” Timmy whispers, his hands toying with the neckline of Armie’s shirt. 

“Okay, I’ll make something.” Timmy nods but again doesn’t make an effort to move. “Timmy,” Armie sighs, lifting him until they’re both sitting. He brushes his hair off his face and tries to will himself to leave the bed, but only manages to pull Timmy to his chest for a hug.

“I missed you,” Timmy confesses, fists clinging to Armie’s shirt. 

“I missed  _ you _ ,” Armie nods, closing his eyes as he runs a hand over Timmy’s hair. “Let’s go make dinner.” Timmy doesn’t fight him when he pulls him up off the bed, his hand tucked securely in his own. It takes all of three seconds in the kitchen for Armie to realize the clinginess won’t go away— 

Timmy is always the friend that leans in first, the one on your shoulder or resting feet over legs. He’s touchy, he exudes affection in everything he does. But this is different, and Armie notices immediately in the way he keeps brushing against Armie’s side or leaning his head against him, how he doesn’t want to distract Armie or bother him, but also can’t seem to do anything but keep some sort of contact. It results in him leaning against a counter on the verge of tears, debating whether or not it’s okay to reach out, his eyes closing when Armie ruffles his hair or pats his shoulder or kisses his forehead and lingers. He caves and leans into him each time, pulling back only when he remembers he needs to let Armie do his thing. He thinks of asking to help, but the thought of actually doing anything is immediately overwhelming and he pushes the thought from his mind. 

Armie makes a pasta dish for Timmy’s benefit and while the sauce is simmering, he turns and pulls Timmy back into his arms, rubs up and down his back, tells him about Harper and projects he’s thinking about, anything to help ground Timmy. When everything’s ready, they sit and eat. Armie keeps his leg extended towards Timmy’s, resting lightly against him. Timmy eats like normal, which is a relief to Armie— he wasn’t sure what to expect when he arrived— but stares at his food after awhile and bites his lip. “Sorry I’m being shitty,” he mumbles, sniffling a little. 

“It’s okay,” Armie says, knocking his knee against Timmy’s. “I get it.” 

“I wanted to show you the city,” Timmy shakes his head, lifts a hand to hold it up. “Instead I’m just fucking useless.”  

“Hey,” Armie’s voice is stronger, a bit more insistent than it’s been. Timmy glances up and swallows. “Stop. You’re depressed, _not_ _useless_. I came here to see _you_. I don’t care if we stay in this apartment the entire time or go see the city. Okay? I’m here for _you._ ” Timmy nods and pinches the corner of his jaw his red-rimmed eyes darting away from Armie. Armie reaches over and touches his hand lightly, fingers brushing over knuckles. “Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks, because something tells him Timmy won’t suggest anything. Timmy nods but still doesn’t meet his eyes. They sit on the couch and Armie opens his arms to make sure Timmy knows he doesn’t mind if he wants to be close. Timmy takes him up on the offer wordlessly, settling in against his side, his legs tucked up and head against Armie’s shoulder as Armie’s arm falls around him. He finds a blanket and pulls it around them, rubs Timmy’s back through the duration of _Batman Begins,_ rests his cheek against Timmy’s head. When the credits role, Timmy sighs and pulls the blanket closer, asks if Armie would play something else. Armie takes it to mean he doesn’t want to move, which is fine especially considering the very act of Timmy asking for something seems better than silence. He puts the next movie on and toys with Timmy’s hair absentmindedly, periodically leaning to kiss his forehead. He realizes as they watch that he’s never felt so protective of him, of anyone that wasn’t his own child, his wife. He loses track of the movie and watches Timmy’s eyes skirt around the TV, watches his fingers fidget periodically with the blanket covering them. It’s instinctual, the need to cover him, to hold him closer. Armie tries to hide how much this affects him, but it’s difficult; he feels tears forming in his eyes as the credits role and can’t bring himself to lift a hand to push them away. 

“Armie?” Timmy asks quietly, his voice timid and tired as he glances up and notices the emotion all over his face. 

“I’m okay, I just,” Armie sniffles. “I just hate seeing you like this,” he admits with a sad smile, his hand snaking through Timmy’s hair. Timmy sighs and leans against Armie again, his head falling back against his shoulder. “You’re scaring everyone,” Armie whispers, unable to stop himself. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Timmy mumbles. 

“Tim—” 

“No,” Timmy shakes his head. “I don’t have the energy to do this. Please.” And Armie tries to come up with reasons to push the subject, like Timmy won’t get help, or he’s falling behind, or the potential jobs he’s missing, or the fact that his own sister felt so helpless that she called a man who she’d never even met to do something. 

In the end, as Timmy holds Armie’s shirt in a too weak grip, the only thing he feels capable of doing is conceding to Timmy’s wishes for a little longer. He was safe, he was still eating and functioning, it was fine. Armie forces his heart back into his chest and away from his throat. 

He forces Timmy to walk instead of be carried when he wants to go to bed, his own quiet victory in the recovery process he’s created in his mind. He isn’t sure when the last time Timmy took a shower was, but his hair is still soft and he doesn’t really smell, so Armie settles on only having him brush his teeth. Timmy stands next to Armie in the bathroom, his eyes rimmed red as he brushes his teeth, Armie doing the same as he watches Timmy’s energy drain from his body with the simple task. He lets Timmy rest his side against him for support, and wraps him up in his arms when they’re done, allowing Timmy to steal some comfort and stability before walking to his bedroom. 

He almost reminds Armie of Harper when she’s missed a nap, her eyes too tired to truly focus, not quite crying but not satisfied either, needy and frustrated. Except, unlike Harper, he knows Timmy won’t just feel better after sleeping it off. 

Armie lets Timmy curl himself up against his side when they settle under the covers before shifting so he can run a hand over the arm Timmy’s draped over him. He thinks Timmy will fall asleep quickly, but finds he’s restless. He tosses and turns, pushing away from Armie before trying to pull him closer, never quite comfortable enough to settle down. He kicks a corner of the covers off his leg before whimpering in frustration and covering his face with one hand while the other reaches out for Armie yet again. He shifts his weight so he can lean over Timmy’s body and tries to pull Timmy’s arm from his face. “Hey, what’s wrong, talk to me,” he begs, his fingers soothing over Timmy’s cheek. Timmy shakes his head as tears pool in his eyes. He turns to hide against Armie’s forearm. “Timmy?” A sob wrecks through his body and Armie sighs. “Come here,” he whispers, trying to sooth him as he lays back down and pulls Timmy against his chest, both arms wrapping around him and rubbing soothing circles over his back. 

“Nothing feels right without you,” Timmy cries. “You’re just gonna leave again and go back to your life. I can’t even enjoy this.” 

“This  _ is _ my life, Timmy. I didn’t pause my life, you’re a part of my life,” Armie says, his eyes closed tight as he tries to hold them both together with his arms. 

“It’s different,” Timmy complains. “Forget it.” 

“No, hey, talk to me. Please,” Armie says, trying to get Timmy to look up at him and failing. 

“I just want to sleep.” Timmy’s breath shudders out of his body with a few sniffles following, his body turning over until Armie’s pressed against his back. 

“I love you,” Armie whispers, pulling him closer. “I hate seeing you in so much pain. Please just let me help you,” he begs. “Can we talk tomorrow? Please?” He feels itchy and panicked, but he knows he can’t force Timmy to do or say anything. His anxiety threatens to ruin his resolve, his strength, but he takes calming breaths until it’s manageable. Timmy’s quiet  _ yes _ helps, as does the slowing of his breathing, signalling he’s finally found enough solace to sleep. 

Armie isn’t as lucky. It takes hours for him to stop his racing mind, to allow himself to sleep. They can’t keep running from the reality of the situation, and knowing Timmy feels insecure about Armie leaving only makes him more panicked about time running out before he has to leave. Timmy wasn’t completely wrong, after all. As much as he didn’t want to at the moment, Armie  _ did _ have to return to another life eventually. 

  
  


Timmy’s gone when Armie wakes up. 

He becomes panicked, sits up quickly, searches the room. “Timmy? TImmy!” he calls over and over. He moves to check the bathroom before Timmy walks back into the room, eyes wide at the state Armie’s in. “Oh thank god, you scared the shit out of me,” he sighs, grabbing at his chest. 

“I had to pee,” TImmy says, his face scrunched up. Armie nods and takes a deep breath before smiling tentatively at him with a  _ good morning _ . Timmy smiles softly and looks down at his feet with a small nod. “I want to go out for breakfast,” he says. 

“Are you— Timmy, you sure about that?” Armie straightens his back, his eyebrows lowering a fraction. TImmy had barely let him out of arm’s reach the day before, hadn’t wanted to do anything but stick at his side. This seemed odd to him. He feels like an asshole for saying it, but he knows it has to be said— “It won’t be like in Italy, there are paparazzi here. Are you okay with that?” 

“I know it’s not like Italy,” Timmy grumbles, shifting on his feet. “If you don’t want to—” 

“No, no. It’s okay, just wanted to be sure you wanted to. Where do you want to go?” Armie walks over and rubs his palms over Timmy’s arms to rid them both of their tension. Timmy’s face softens with the movement, a sigh slipping out of his lips. Armie almost regrets it when Timmy feels to return to his tired expression from the day before when he speaks next. 

“I just want a bagel,” he says with a glance up at Armie. 

“Okay,” Armie nods. “Okay, bagels. We can do that.” Timmy nods back and bites his lip, his arms wrapping around himself suddenly. “Let’s get dressed and then we can go grab some,” Armie suggests, a hand wandering out to lightly rub Timmy’s cheek. Timmy leans into it and allows himself to be pulled into Armie’s embrace, and as it’s fleeting, Armie feels like Timmy is less dependent today than he was yesterday. He’s not sure it’s a good sign or a bad one, but it’s different so he takes note regardless. 

It takes them awhile to get ready, but then Armie’s double checking to see if Timmy has his keys, his phone, and then they’re off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone on tumblr telling me to post lol


End file.
